


These Enforced Disorders

by DefaltManifesto



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Victim Blaming, post season 3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2421332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefaltManifesto/pseuds/DefaltManifesto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles joins Jackson in London as he tries to make sense of what happened to him. But eventually you have to stop running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Enforced Disorders

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post. Lots of this fic is inspired by actual experiences I had in Cardiff and London so yeah, this fic is super close to my heart. Also, the title is from The Pain by Hollywood Undead. Other songs that influenced this fic include Rose Tattoo by the Dropkick Murphys, Prodigal by One Republic, and Rain by Hollywood Undead. I hope you enjoy. Feedback is greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Also, side note. I mention a place called Waxy O'Conners. It's a real place, it was super kick ass, and you should look up pictures of it cuz it's cool.

[The post that inspired it](http://lagerthea.tumblr.com/post/99403206617/supernim-weve-both-been-through-it-well)

[My tumblr](http://schizzar.tumblr.com)

 

Stiles' leg jackhammered against the floor as the tube rocked noisily back and forth on its tracks, carrying him further into the center of the city. His backpack was in his lap, one arm secured around it so that the bouncing of his leg didn't send it toppling to the floor and his fingers played with a stray thread that was stuck in the zipper of the front pocket. Beside him, Isaac had his head resting against the window of the tube car, eyes shut, ears covered by massive headphones. He flipped his Oyster card between his fingers, the flash of blue and then white catching Stiles' eyes, mesmerizing him for a moment before he tore his gaze away and looked out the window opposite of him.

They were back underground now, after a stretch of track carried them above it. Stiles didn't like it. Even with the windows between the cars down, the air rushing through them tasted stale, and he was hyperaware of how close the walls were and that it was solid ground above them and that they could get trapped down there and-

Isaac reached out and twined their fingers together, pulling Stiles' hand off where it had been clenching tightly over his kneecap to do so. The Oyster card in his hand bit into Stiles' palm and he focused on that instead of the panic in his chest. His heart continued to rabbit out a harsh beat though, and with a heavy sigh, Isaac removed his headsets to let them dangle around his neck before getting to his feet and bracing himself on one of the poles to stand in front of Stiles.

"Calm down, we've got like, three more stops and then we gotta a change over," Isaac said. He shifted closer, worming his way between Stiles' knees and looming over him, but unlike the closeness of the walls, it was comforting even if it was Isaac.

"How many times have you visited Jackson since you...left?" Stiles asked, leaning back in his seat to look up at Isaac.

Isaac shrugged, placing his hands up on the top railing. "Twice. It's only been three months and the train ticket from France to here is...well we can pay for it but it just doesn't seem like there's much of a point, you know? Jackson and I aren't friends but I guess it helps seeing each other sometimes."

Yeah." Stiles still couldn't quite work out why he thought this was a good idea in the first place. Yeah Scott had a point about the whole 'you have something in common, you should talk about it' thing, but since when had he and Jackson _ever_ talked to each other in even a slightly not hostile manner?

"Next stop, Piccadilly Circus. Change here for the Bakerloo line."

"That's us," Isaac said.

He backed up and let Stiles stand on shaky legs, not quite used to the jerking motion of the tube and also never having good balance to begin with. As they stepped off, Stiles reached out to curl his fingers in the back of Isaac's shirt, his other hand holding the shoulder strap of his bag. The crush of people made Stiles' chest tighten, but he just hung onto Isaac's shirt and let the tall werewolf guide him up one, two, three flights of stairs and down some hallways to another platform.

Even after they came to a stop, Stiles couldn't bring himself to let go. He ordered his fingers to loosen, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried to concentrate, but his body was more concerned with clinging to the familiar than giving Stiles any sense of dignity back. Isaac pulled away, the action forcing Stiles' hand to drop. He was aware of Isaac staring at him, but his limbs felt like lead and insisted that he not move.

Isaac reached out and tugged the bag out of his hands, then manipulated his arms until the backpack was slung over Stiles' shoulders before reaching out and setting his long fingered hands on top of the straps. Finally, Stiles managed to look at him.

"I'm not a kid, I can take care of myself," Stiles said, but the words were hoarse and he only managed to hold Isaac's gaze for a grand total of two seconds.

Isaac sighed then reached out and let his arm sling over Stiles' shoulders. Stiles leaned into his side and tried not to think too hard about why he felt so claustrophobic. The darkness of the tunnels attracted Stiles' eyes and the warmth of Isaac's body faded to the back of his mind as he stared into it. It was a total darkness, no play of shadows. In that way, Stiles actually found it comforting to look at. Sure, there could be something dangerous in that darkness, but as long as there were no distortions, no tricks of light, he could embrace it and pretend he was safe.

When the headlight of the first car rounded the bend, Stiles turned his gaze away. The noise of the wheels screeching on the rails was harsh in Stiles' ears, leaving no room for distracting thoughts. The Bakerloo line was significantly more busy, standing room only. Isaac kept Stiles close and leaned up against the side of one of the seats, crushing Stiles close to his chest to keep him away from the strangers.

It was a possessive gesture Stiles could only ever remember Scott showing towards him. Isaac had never been particularly touchy with anyone outside Scott and Erica and Allis-

Stiles' heart raced, his mind unable to complete her name, all of it too sore and tender in the back reaches of his thoughts, locked so tightly in a box of memories he was never supposed to touch.

The doors pinged open and Isaac guided him out, keeping them both moving, avoiding the escalators for the sake of keeping Stiles from having to stand still. They tapped their cards against the sensors on the gates and then, _finally_ , the area was less crowded. Isaac let Stiles lean up against a wall near the exit, standing in front of him as a protective and living barrier. It wasn't like he was having a panic attack. It was different. His brain was scattering every which way to avoid thoughts of the Nogitsune and what had happened during those few months under possession.

"I'm good," Stiles said after a few minutes. "How far away is Jackson's place?"

"Twenty blocks or so," Isaac said. "Figured it's better to walk than be underground any longer."

"Yeah okay."

Stiles followed after Isaac out into the busy and noisy street. Some part of his brain wanted to marvel at the fact that he was in _freaking London_ , but all he wanted to do was find Jackson's place and face plant into the nearest comfy looking object and sleep.

It was hard to tell what buildings were meant for living and which were shops. Everything just looked old in his eyes. Isaac led him further away from the busy streets to an area where the streets were lined with parked cars. They ended up on a street where every door was numbered with a small set of steps leading up to it.

Jackson's was a corner flat, large windows exposing a living room with wood floors and blue walls as well as a small glimpse of a kitchen behind a set of sliding wood doors. Isaac knocked on the door and Stiles shifted once more into Isaac's side, wanting the ground to swallow him up so he wouldn't have to see Jackson's stupid face.

"Hey," Jackson said as he opened the door.

Stiles looked up as Jackson gestured for them to step inside with a jerk of his chin. Isaac grabbed Stiles' wrist and forced him inside.

Jackson, oddly, hadn't changed much, just more muscle and a blanker look in his eyes. It was weird seeing him in his own element though, in a place that was wholly his own. The confidence in every motion was still there, but as he led the way into the living room, Stiles could read a slight hesitation as he turned his back on them. He wondered, for a brief moment, if he would've noticed that on his own, or if it was left over predatory instincts from the Nogitsune.

"You staying too, Isaac?" Jackson asked as he sprawled out on a grey couch that was backed up against the window facing the main street. There was a slight lilt to his voice, the barest traces of an accent that was nowhere close to the accent of California.

"Just for a few hours. Chris has a flat he keeps here now, up in Camden Town," Isaac said with a shrug.

Jackson snorted.

"What's wrong with Camden Town?" Isaac asked.

Jackson raised an eyebrow, the gesture so familiar Stiles could almost pretend they were still fifteen and their life hadn't gone to hell. "Do you mean besides it being one gigantic tourist trap?"

"It's not like I'm actually shopping. Going back home tomorrow morning anyways," Isaac said with a shrug.

"What, so is France your home now?" Stiles asked, setting his bag down on the ground.

Isaac frowned as he turned to look at Stiles. "Yeah, I guess. Been there long enough."

"What about us? What about Scott?" Stiles asked.

"What about it?" Isaac asked, arms folding across his chest.

"Both of you are just running away, aren't you? Leaving us to pick up the mess you've left behind in your real homes," Stiles said, the anger surging up through his chest.

"If we're running, than so are you," Isaac said.

"No, I'm not. I'm going back. Because I actually give a shit about the people that live there."

"Stiles-" Isaac started.

"Maybe you should just go, Isaac, yeah?" Jackson asked. "We'll be fine."

"Yeah, sure." Isaac's shoulders hunched forward a bit and the sharp sting of regret shot through Stiles gut.

Who cared if Isaac was running? It wasn't like Stiles could really blame him, especially since Derek had rejected him and Scott barely paid attention to anyone after...everything. There wasn't shit left for him. He had no stake in a place that had buried anyone he'd ever cared about.

"Sorry, Isaac. I just...it's weird being here. And I'm tired," Stiles said.

"It's okay." Isaac hesitated, like he wasn't sure if he should leave, so Stiles picked up his bag and headed towards the only other hallway.

"Look, I'm just gonna sleep, you don't need to go," Stiles said.

"Bedroom on the left," Jackson said as Stiles backed away.

Stiles nodded and turned away. The door to what he assumed was Jackson's room was closed so he had no opportunity to snoop even if he wanted to. The spare bedroom was small and it looked like Jackson used it as a workout room. The small bed was tucked up against the far wall, and there were no windows or posters to interrupt the bare expanse of bright white walls. The floors were wood like the rest of the flat. The rest of the space was taken up by a bench press and scattered weights Jackson hadn't bothered to clean up. What scant space was left was taken up by a treadmill as well as the closet door.

Stiles tossed his bag in the direction of the closet and flopped down on the bed. The duvet was white too, but soft and fluffy. It was too hot to crawl under it. Isaac mentioned earlier that the weather was unusually warm so native Californian or not, Stiles felt a bit hotter than usual.

He buried his face in the pillow and did his best not to try and listen in on whatever conversation Isaac and Jackson were having about him. Sound travelled well in the flat. Of course, that just meant both the werewolves were better able to tell if he was actually sleeping. Stiles kept his eyes shut until the exhaustion of so much travel finally dragged him down into the world of sleep.

 

-.-

 

The smell of spiced chicken and garlic bread brought Stiles back to the land of the living. He rolled out of bed and padded down the hallway. Jackson was in the kitchen, two takeout cartons on the counter top and plates in hand. He held one out to Stiles without turning around.

"Yours is the carton to the left," Jackson said. "Isaac's gone by the way."

"Right."

Stiles took the plate and shuffled passed the small table to reach the counter. He opened the carton and the smell of the spices grew stronger, which was a new feeling all together. Ever since he'd first started...forgetting where he'd been, forgetting if he'd actually woken up, food started tasting like dust. Even three months post possession, he found that most food remained tasteless.

But this...

"What is this glorious thing before me?" Stiles asked, stabbing the large grilled chicken butterfly that was nestled in a bed of rice with the fork Jackson had handed him and plopping it on his plate.

"Dude, it's just takeout. Cheap takeout," Jackson said. "It's like, slightly healthier McDonalds."

"Okay, don't ruin this for me. This is like the first thing I've _wanted_ to eat in like, six months," Stiles said. He dumped the rice on his plate as well and then took a seat at the small wooden table.

"I had them use their spiciest stuff. I couldn't taste shit after the whole Kanima thing so I figured..." Jackson trailed off as he sat down across from Stiles, his plate piled high with nine pieces of chicken for himself.

Stiles looked up at him but Jackson was looking pointedly down at his food. It was weird, realizing Jackson had actually gone out of his way to make him eat. It was weirder that Jackson understood what it was like to hate the taste of everything he'd once enjoyed. Stiles turned back to his food and dug in, inhaling it all in record time. When they finished, Jackson scooped up their plates before Stiles could offer to help. He loaded them in a small dishwasher and threw the bags in the trash and then turned to face Stiles.

"So what do you want to do then?" Jackson asked.

"I'm not the Londoner," Stiles said. "You know the best places to go."

"You actually wanna go out somewhere?" Jackson asked, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles shrugged. "Beats sitting around here."

"Alright. You got a fake I.D.?" Jackson asked, stepping away from the counter and heading towards the hallway.

"Yeah. Had to save Danny too many times not to. I swear that kid never leaves the Jungle," Stiles said.

Jackson's laugh bounced down the hallway as he headed for his room. Stiles got to his feet and went to his own room. Admittedly, he didn't really have any clothes that would live up to Jackson's fashion standards and everything in his bag was wrinkled to all hell. Before he could open his bag though, Jackson knocked on the doorframe.

"I don't trust whatever is in that bag. You wanna go out, we do it on my terms. Put these on," Jackson said, holding out three hangers full of clothes.

"There's no way these are going to fit-"

"Just do it, Stilinski."

Stiles grabbed the hangers and shut the door. He checked the tag on the tight looking pair of red jeans, eyes widening when he realized it was _freaking Armani_. Apparently he and Danny had the same taste. "Jesus Christ."

He pulled on the outfit, red jeans, white shirt, and some fancy black jacket with way too many buttons and zippers. It was way outside his comfort zone, and yet somehow, that made it better. In clothes like this, even if they were a little big in the shoulders, it was easier to pretend that he was a normal human, easier to put on a facade, a mask, flimsy armor that could fool the masses into thinking he was just fine.

When he moved out to the living room, Jackson was already there, dressed in his usual tight-fitting clothes, dark jeans and a grey jacket and a navy scarf. He looked better in it than Isaac would have. Isaac always looked like he was trying too hard and never quite looked like he was comfortable.

"How do you afford this shit?" Stiles asked.

Jackson got to his feet, checking his phone once more before squeezing it into his pocket. "My parents are lawyers. Plus I've got my own job."

"Why get a job when they'll pay for all this?" Stiles asked.

"Because, Stilinski. Having too much free time is not helpful to me. Now can you stop asking stupid questions so we can actually get drunk?"

"Thought werewolves couldn't get drunk," Stiles said, trailing after Jackson as he led the way out of the flat.

"McCall just wasn't trying hard enough. Besides, I've got a method. I made Derek show me before I left," Jackson said. "You'll see."

They walked to the tube station in silence. The streets were a little less crowded with the growing darkness, but the shadows didn't scare Stiles, because he didn't even _feel_ like Stiles. He was far away from the things that could hurt him. He was dressed as someone that possessed confidence, and that persona seemed to seep further and further into his bones with each step.

 

-.-

 

They ended up at some shady looking club that Jackson readily admitted was in a shit part of the city, but the music was good. The dance floor itself was packed, and while Jackson never left his line of sight, he mostly left Stiles to his own devices. The awkwardness Stiles usually felt in these situations had finished melting away somewhere between Jackson's flat and the narrow staircase that led down to the depths of the club, leaving him feeling light. So when a girl dressed in ripped black tights, combat boots, a shredded skirt, and dark red corset pressed up against him and wrapped her arms around his neck, he accepted it, let her lead his body with the rhythm of her hips.

She kept her head bowed, dark curls shielding her face from view. His hands slid down the silk and metal frame that encased her torso, appreciating that it offered no give no matter how tight his grip. It was a closeness Stiles had craved for months, but with none of the strings that came from friendships. None of the tainted and violent history to come between them. Here, he could pretend to be whatever he wanted, whatever the girl in his arms wanted.

A shift in the tempo as the song bled into a new one made the girl pull away and finally she looked up. That moment was like a punch to the gut. Her eyes were wide and open, bright blue, and her lips painted the shade of lipstick _she_ always wore because Scott mentioned he liked it, and her expression contorted into an almost manic smile that he'd never seen on _her_ face.

"It's your fault and it will _never_ be okay," Allison whispered as she stared up at him, and somehow the words were loud in his ears and the music turned to white noise.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and opened them once more. "Wha-"

The girl's eyes were a dark brown and her lips painted a deep black and her expression twisted into a concerned frown. "I said, are you okay?"

Stiles yanked away from her, heart clawing its way up his throat. He managed to make his way to the stairway but then the panic grew too great and the fear of the shadows, shadows that could be hiding all manner of dark things with long swords, blotted out all type of reason.

A hand grabbed his wrist and Stiles reeled back, an elbow catching Jackson's jaw in the process. Jackson didn't seem to mind, or surprised, and he tightened his grip on Stiles' wrist to tug him up the stairs and out of the club. The cool air of night was like a splash of cold water. Stiles sucked in a heaving breath as Jackson led him down a dimly lit alleyway.

Stiles slid to the ground, fingers twisting in his hair as tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes. Jackson stood in front of him like Isaac had before. He didn't reach out to comfort him, only stood as a shield for Stiles to hide behind and work through the panic and fear on his own. Once Stiles regained control of his breathing, Jackson shifted to sit down beside him instead.

"Sorry," Stiles said after a moment, voice cracking. "I was fine."

"Yeah it's whatever."

Stiles glanced over at him as he swiped at his eyes. He frowned when he realized there was a bruise blossoming across Jackson's jaw. "Why aren't you healing?"

Jackson just shrugged, looking at the opposite wall. "To get buzzed, I have to shut down the healing thing. By morning I'll be fine so don't worry about it."

"What'd you do?" Stiles asked.

Jackson turned to look at Stiles, and Stiles wanted to look away when he caught sight of the utter _lack_ of emotion in Jackson's eyes. "Is that really what you want to talk about right now?"

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek and glanced down. "I guess not. Don't really wanna talk about what happened in there either."

"That's fine." Jackson got to his feet and extended a hand to help Stiles stands as well. "Let's go home then. Tube might be closed so we'll have to take the bus."

"Can we walk?" Stiles asked. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket to hide the way they were trembling. "I'm not so keen on the whole...small spaces thing."

"Yeah, it's fine."

Jackson started walking, not reaching out to him like Isaac had. Stiles wondered if Jackson still felt any of the need to establish territory in his packmates, if he had ever even seen Stiles, and Scott, and Lydia, and Derek as a pack. Stiles found himself craving Jackson's comfort regardless. He shoved the feelings down, cursing his weakness and the desperation that made him want to reach out to _Jackson_ of all people.

Stiles pulled his hands out of his pockets to wrap his arms around himself. It was a vain attempt to hold the roiling emotions inside, to keep himself inside because he was too scared to let his mind wander, too scared to allow a hole for some other malicious creature to take advantage of. So wrapped up in his fierce battle to stay in his body, in reality, he didn't realize Jackson had stopped walking until he smacked into Jackson's back.

Jackson turned around and grabbed the back of Stiles' neck to yank him to stand in front of Jackson. He didn't say anything, just dropped his hand down to Stiles' waist. Jackson began to lead the way again, but this time with his arm curled around Stiles' waist. Stiles kept his arms wrapped around his chest, not able to relax into Jackson's grip because well...it was Jackson. Jackson who gave him swirlies in middle school. Who slammed him into lockers and called him names.

Who'd almost killed his friends. Who had killed others.

"Fuck." Stiles breathed out the word in a quiet sigh. He slumped into Jackson's grasp as he began to shake, partially from the cold and partially from the indefinable feeling spreading throughout his bones.

"Wanna talk about it?" Jackson asked.

Stiles shook his head and they kept walking. The streets were oddly empty. There were still people, but it wasn't the crush of bodies he'd experienced earlier in the day, and he'd expected more given how big the city was. It was eerie, but Stiles was grateful for it. The less people that noticed how much of a train wreck he was, the better. They walked for close to an hour in silence and yet even with the time, Stiles' thoughts came no closer to organizing into coherent sentences.

Scott had told him that talking to Jackson would help and from a completely objective point of view, Stiles knew he was right because Jackson knew what it was like to be out of control. At least that's the impression they all got. Jackson hadn't exactly been in the sharing mood in the weeks before he ditched them all for London. He'd only spoken to Derek and Lydia, and Derek only ever talked to Scott and Lydia never talked about Jackson.

"Do you remember what you did?" Stiles asked. His words were loud in the quiet air.

"Took a while for the memories to start surfacing but yeah. Now I do," Jackson said, voice hard, like he didn't want to admit it.

"Suppose that means I won't forget, huh?"

"Probably not."

"You're shit at comforting."

"I'm not here to coddle you, Stilinski," Jackson said. "You want someone to hold your hand and tell you it gets better, go back to McCall."

Jackson shoved Stiles away hard enough that he almost fell. It was the first bit of emotion, first thread of anger, Stiles had actually seen since he arrived, and for some twisted reason he would tuck away and never, _ever_ analyze, Stiles wanted to see more of it.

"They're scared, aren't they?" Stiles asked. "In your dreams. You see their faces before you kill them and their always so god damn terrified."

Jackson whirled and seized Stiles by the front of his jacket to slam him up against the wall of the empty alleyway. "Yeah, they are. Is that what you want to hear?"

There was real anger in Jackson's voice now, and the dead look in his eyes was erased by the passion of his fury.

"Tell me what you did, what you felt, when you ripped their throats open," Stiles whispered. "Did you hate it?"

"Of course I did!"

Stiles shuddered, the emotional pain choking Jackson's voice a heavy and palpable thing in the air between them. He reached up and grabbed Jackson's wrist hard, nails biting into the tender flesh along his veins.

"Did you really though? You were a monster, Jackson. Maybe you still are," Stiles said, the words pouring out of him as the need to make Jackson ache, make him cry, nearly overwhelmed him.

"Yeah, and maybe you still are too," Jackson said, the harsh blue of his eyes piercing through Stiles high as his voice grew quieter. "Maybe you're just as much of a monster as that thing that possessed you. Ever think of that?"

The words were worse than any physical blow. The strange and manic high Stiles had been riding on dropped out abruptly from beneath him. He released his grip on Jackson's arm and Jackson did the same, but Stiles' legs had turned to jelly so he ended up slumping to the ground once more.

"I must be," Stiles said. His stomach rolled as he realized he'd actually been able to _feel_ Jackson's anger and pain, had been able to lap it up like the Nogitsune had done. "What's wrong with me?"

"Get up," Jackson said. "Try not to freak out, yeah?"

The anger was gone from Jackson's voice, replaced instead by a bone-deep exhaustion. Stiles took a deep breath and forced himself to hold it. His heart pounded even harder for a moment, then began to slow once more. Jackson cursed under his breath and then forced Stiles to stand once more.

"Home first. Then we'll talk about whatever the fuck that was," Jackson said.

Stiles nodded, wrapped his arms tight around his chest, and didn't say another word.

 

-.-

 

By the time they got back to Jackson's flat, Stiles was numb. He put one foot in front of the other, accepted the cup of tea and the blanket, but he wasn't there. He just forced the liquid down his throat and wrapped the blanket tighter over his shoulders because that's what Stiles would do and as long as he convinced everyone he was okay, he could stay inside and just watch. Go through the motions.

Coast.

Jackson slapped him hard across the face, the sudden pain forcing Stiles back into full awareness and with it came the panic. He nearly dropped the mug in his hands and only saved it by tugging it close to his chest. His fingers burned, small points of pain to root him to reality, thanks to the warmth of the cup. He was dimly aware of Jackson yelling into his phone and as the pain began to fade away, his mind began to convert the sound into actual words.

"Yeah well you should've fucking warned me. Jesus Christ...yeah, we're fine. No, just go back to France, dumbass. You guys just fucked him up more anyways."

Jackson hung up his phone and then tossed it on the couch opposite of the one Stiles sat on.

"That Isaac?" Stiles asked, voice hoarse.

"Yeah. He...told me what happened with you back there. Apparently Deaton had a theory that some of the Nogitsune's power would stay with you," Jackson said, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he paced the short length of the living room.

"And no one bothered to inform me until now?" Stiles set aside the tea before he dropped it on accident. "What the fuck?"

"Isaac said Deaton didn't think it would be an actual threat-"

Stiles lurched to his feet and bolted for the bathroom, barely making it in time to void his guts of what little food he'd managed to choke down. He'd been so afraid that the Nogitsune had left a piece of itself within him, had tainted him with its presence for the rest of his life, and now that fear was realized. He'd mocked Jackson for fearing there was still a monster inside him, when really, it was the other way around.

Stiles wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet before getting up on shaky legs. Jackson handed him a glass of water and Stiles accepted it with a quick nod, swishing out his mouth and spitting into the sink. Just a few hours ago and he'd been so desperate to keep the sick and dark feelings inside, and now he wanted nothing more than to claw it all out, empty himself so he could refill himself with something better.

"Jackson?" Stiles stared at his reflection in the mirror, watched his lips shape the letters of his name.

"What do you need?"

Stiles watched his eyes water and even as he watched it happen, he was unable to hold it back. The question was much too big to answer. He needed to have never been possessed in the first place. He needed Allison to be alive. He needed Scott to have never been bitten. He needed-

"I want my mom to be alive. I need to talk to her. I need her to tell me I'm going to be okay," Stiles said, the words coming out in between harsh gasps for breath.

"Shit."

There was a moment where neither of them moved, and then Jackson pushed his way into the small bathroom to pull Stiles into a tight hug. Stiles crumpled, fingers curling in the stupidly expensive fabric of Jackson's jacket. It was too much. All of it was too _fucking_ much. He couldn't even begin to process all the emotion rushing through him; the rage, the pain and the agony, the torment. How did someone even begin to process so much?

It wasn't like Jackson could help. He was as useless as Scott. As emotionally stunted as Derek. They were all just kids, they weren't equipped to deal this, they were never meant to, and his dad didn't know what to do but his mom...god his mom. Stiles couldn't ever forget how she always knew just what to do, just how to make his dad smile, how to make the pain of all his cuts and bruises go away with a smile and a hug. He wanted his mom now to give him that hug. That smile. But all he got was _this_ and just what the fuck was that supposed to help with?

"Jackson, I can't do this," Stiles whispered, tears running so fast that even when he opened his eyes, all he got was a watery blur. "You can't ask me to do this. I don't know where to start."

"I know." Jackson's voice was fractured against Stiles' ear, his arms curling around Stiles' waist and trapping him close to the warmth of his chest. "I know I can't ask you to. It's too much, I know that."

"I want to die," Stiles said, voice quiet as he regained control of his breathing, even as the tears continued to run hot and fast down his cheeks. "Do you get that Jackson? Being alive, it's...I _can't_. I'm a monster, _I_ _killed Allison_ , Jesus Christ, do you fucking get that?"

Stiles jerked back, almost tugging out of Jackson's grip but then Jackson pinned him to the wall, hands locking around Stiles' wrists and forcing them down against the wall.

"Yes, I fucking get it Stiles, and I'm sorry but that feeling? You have to just deal with it. You don't get to run away from it," Jackson said, pressing his forehead to Stiles'.

His eyes were practically overflowing with emotion, a desperation in them that Stiles couldn't ever remember seeing. His hands were biting in their grip on Stiles' wrists and he was practically begging with Stiles to see, but he wasn't sure what it was Jackson was trying to convey and it was just too much-

"I'm just like you, Stiles. We've both got monsters living inside us and we are never going to be free of them so we have _got_ to learn to live with them," Jackson said. His voice was earnest and one of his hands shot up to grip the back of Stiles' neck, squeezing hard as he stared into Stiles' eyes. "You don't get to run, alright? I'm not going to let you."

"What the fuck do you care?" Stiles asked.

"I have spent my whole life running, Stiles. From everything. And it turned me into a monster because when you push it down and away, that's what leaves you open to letting something worse in, and I don't mean just a Kanima or a Nogitsune, I mean it makes you less than human. If you don't let yourself feel, you're going to be worse than a monster," Jackson whispered and god his eyes were so scared. He was fucking _scared_. "I'm sorry it sucks but I can't let you go down that road. Not again. Neither of us can afford that."

"So what do I do?"

Jackson fell silent, and then he pulled back so he could tug Stiles into a tight hug. "Don't know. Still working on that."

 

-.-

 

Stiles woke up sprawled across his bed with the world's most painful knot in his neck. His eyes were swollen from falling asleep after crying so much and he resisted the urge to rub at them, not too keen on making it even worse. He hadn't even managed to change out of Jackson's clothes which...okay, that was awesome. A soft groan made its way passed his chapped lips as he pulled himself out of the bed and got to his feet, but before he could make it to the bathroom, Jackson seemed to bleed out of the shadows of the hallway to stand in front of him.

"You alright?"

Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever get used to seeing any degree of concern in Jackson's eyes. "Yeah. Gonna. Shower now."

"Right. Breakfast?"

"Mmm." Stiles gave a noncommittal shrug and headed into the bathroom.

He avoided looking in the mirror, memories of the night before sliding into awareness and curling around his brain. Perhaps it was only the Nogitsune's hunger, his ability to feed on the pain around him, but a deeper part of him feared that there was still some small part of the creature's soul clinging to the edges of Stiles' mind. It was childish, but he sort of thought that as long as he didn't look in the mirror and see something else staring back at him, he could pretend he was fine.

Stripping out of Jackson's clothes was harder than he thought. He didn't get how people wore this shit on a regular basis. It wasn't until Stiles turned the water all the way over that it was finally hot enough for him to feel, and even then he had to stand there under the spray for several minutes before his skin began to hurt. Once he started cleaning himself, he was quick, not wanting to linger too long and make Jackson worry.

When he got out to the small kitchen area, a plate of bacon and toast with a thick spread of jam awaited him and it actually did look somewhat appetizing. He took a seat, casting a cautious look at Jackson. The werewolf, dressed in baggy sweatpants with a hole in the back of the knee and a ratty looking white t-shirt, had his back to Stiles as he made his own breakfast.

Stiles couldn't quite puzzle out why Jackson's sudden kindness and attentiveness was bugging him. He supposed he was still having a hard time putting Jackson in anything but the insensitive asshole category, even if when he thought hard enough he could still remember how safe Jackson's firm grip had felt around him.

"I know you prefer the spicy stuff, but I made the bacon myself and the jam is the only thing I like on toast here, so maybe it'll taste alright," Jackson said.

He turned around and took a seat across from Stiles with his own identical plate of food. They ate mostly in silence, with Jackson getting up two more times to eat more food. Stiles found that as he had already proven, Jackson was pretty good at finding foods that did actually have some sort of taste to them, so he found himself eagerly shoving food in his mouth like the night before. Once Stiles was done, Jackson took their plates just as he had before and shoved them in the dishwasher to deal with later before turning around and hopping up on the counter.

"Called Deaton when I woke up this morning. Used Skype because I may be rich but I am not paying international phone bills," Jackson said with a roll of his eyes. "Says to tell you not to worry. You can probably just feel other people's pain because the Nogitsune left power within you, not itself. It should fade away over time."

"If that's true then how come last night was the first time I felt it?" Stiles asked, keeping the words steady despite how much the rest of him wanted to freak out.

"Well, have you been actively seeking confrontation before now?" Jackson asked with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles shook his head, staring down at the table. "No. I've been...avoiding people."

"So last night was the first time you've gotten up in someone's face, right? So naturally it's going to be the first time you've noticed you've had this bit of power hanging on to you," Jackson said. "It's okay Stiles."

"No it's not," Stiles said as his fingers curled into tight fists, his nails biting half-moon shapes into his palms. "I've got part of a monster still inside of me and it wants me to hurt people so it can drink up their pain. Did Scott even tell you what I did to him?"

When Stiles looked back up, Jackson's arms were folded across his chest and his look of concern had hardened into something else once more, something unreadable.

"No. He didn't."

"I'm not surprised, because if he did I don't think you'd be half as nice as you're being right now," Stiles said, a bitter laugh shoving its way out of his throat. "I made him absorb the pain of all the people I hurt. Then I stabbed him and took it all back. I got people killed just so I could feel their pain."

"Except you didn't, Stiles," Jackson said. He hopped off the counter and came to stand in front of Stiles, looming over him. "You didn't do that. You might remember your body doing it, your hands, but it wasn't you."

"Yes it was!"

"No, it really wasn't!" Jackson grabbed the front of his shirt like before, hauling him upright so they were just a few inches apart. "You just want to blame yourself because it was your body and you're supposed to have control over it. You're supposed to be strong enough to shove away the influence of anything around you. I get that. But we're not always strong enough and that's _okay_. Just accept the fact that you lost control and that _it's not your fault_."

"You say that like it's fucking easy," Stiles snapped, shoving Jackson back, and Jackson released his grip on Stiles' shirt, rolling with the shove to give Stiles back some of his space. "Like it's okay to be weak when my weakness gets people killed!"

"You're not invincible Stiles. No one is expecting you to withstand everything. No one blames you," Jackson said. "Can't you see that?"

"Is it that easy for you then?" Stiles demanded, whirling away from him to put some space between himself and Jackson's god damn eyes that seemed to have no trouble seeing right through him.

"I didn't say it was _easy_ , asswipe," Jackson practically snarled. "Of course I still blame myself. The difference is, I know that's wrong so I try not to. I've had a year on my own to start getting my shit together, and honestly, I'm not even close. That's okay too."

"You're just running though, aren't you? If you're still here?" Stiles asked, but his voice was quieter this time.

"I was at first but..." Jackson looked away. "That place is toxic, Stiles. If I had stayed, I don't think I'd ever stop looking over my shoulder. You can't recover in a place with that many things trying to kill you. I'm not going back, probably ever. I'll end up dead."

"Do you think I should stay away?" Stiles asked after a beat of silence. "Not go back?"

Jackson looked back up at him. "Honestly, yeah. But I don't think you will. You've got people there you want to protect."

"And you don't? What about Lydia, or Danny?"

"Danny's moving. His parents don't really like the death rate. And Lydia and I don't talk anymore and even if we did, it's not like she can't take care of herself."

"Your parents?"

The glazed look of indifference from before bled into Jackson's expression. "They're not my parents. Not really."

"Right..."

"Look, what I'm trying to say is no one blames you. That was the point of this whole goddamn conversation until you got my sidetracked," Jackson said. "No one thinks you're a monster, even if the Nogitsune did leave you with some of its power. Just...fucking repeat that to yourself until you believe it. I'm done with this conversation."

Jackson pushed passed him and headed down the hall for the bathroom. Stiles took a deep breath and curled up on the couch, pretending that he wasn't about to start crying.

 

-.-

 

The rest of the day passed in a hazy daze. Stiles stayed in his room and surfed the web watching stupid viral videos until it was a decent enough time to Skype with his dad and Scott. Talking to his dad always made the guilt worse, because he hated making him worry. After all, once his mom died, Stiles had grown up and learned to take care of himself as his dad took on more hours to pay the bills and avoid the memories of Claudia that seemed to fill and spill out from the walls.

When he finished with that, he pulled himself out of bed and opened his bedroom door. Jackson's door was closed and Stiles realized that he'd never actually _seen_ the other's room. He didn't spend long hovering outside the door though, not sure what he'd say if Jackson opened it. He headed for the kitchen and found himself unable to help but crack the barest of smiles when he heard the door open as soon as he walked away.

"Stiles."

Stiles turned to see Jackson standing in front of his room. "Yeah?"

"You wanna try going out again tonight?" Jackson asked. "Not a club, just. Drinks."

"Yeah sure. When?"

"Few hours?"

"Sure." Stiles continued to the kitchen and tried to ignore the weird feeling the stilted conversation gave him.

 

-.-

 

They grabbed Nandos on the way to the tube station, which was where the chicken from the day before had come from much to Stiles' glee. Stiles insisted on paying even though Jackson had more than enough money to do it himself, which Stiles ended up regretting given how much food Jackson was capable of putting away.

Stiles leaned back in the booth, patting his full stomach. "So how do you plan on getting drunk? You never explained that."

"Oh, right." Jackson shifted in his seat and pulled out a small plastic bag to hand over to Stiles.

"Wolfsbane powder?" Stiles asked, looking at it closer under the harsh light. "That seems like a horrible idea."

"Calm down. If it was gonna kill me, Derek wouldn't have suggested it," Jackson said as he took the bag back. He opened it and sprinkled a pinch over the last of his meal before shoving it back in his pocket. "It just slows the healing down enough to get buzzed. I still have most my strength."

"That...is so weird."

Jackson finished off his meal and got to his feet. "Whatever. It gets the job done. Ready?"

"Yeah."

Stiles followed him up the stairs and out onto the busy night street. It was still early enough that people were hitting up the supermarkets and pubs on their way home, but it wasn't tinged with the hurried almost panicked feeling Stiles felt during the day. The tube was still crowded, but not as bad as before, and if Stiles hung closer to Jackson regardless, the werewolf didn't seem bothered.

"So where are we going?" Stiles asked as they slid into one of the less crowded cars and took seats near the back.

"It's called Waxy O'Conners. Dumbass name, but it's not too crowded on a Thursday night," Jackson said.

"Do you go out often? Do you even have anyone to go out with?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "I do know how to make friends, Stilinski. I know a few people I don't mind going out with. I don't make a habit of it."

The reason why went unspoken. Stiles could read the same tension he had in Jackson's shoulders when someone passed by too close. He was better than Stiles, sure, but that wasn't hard to do, and either way, Stiles wasn't about to judge him for his hesitance in social interactions.

The tube screeched its way to a halt and they disembarked at Piccadilly Circus. There were more people out in the streets, flashing lights of advertisements competing for two seconds of recognition in his field of vision working in tandem with the syncopated rhythms of different beats from all the surrounding clubs that rose up from the pavement into the soles of his feet. They combined into an overloaded mixture of Stiles' senses, but then Jackson's fingers were tangling with his and tugging him along.

He could've let go, shaken loose of Jackson's grip. His eyes flicked down to their grasped hands and he changed his mind because _damn it_ , he could _feel_ the warmth of Jackson's hand against his skin and that put him at ease more than anything. Part of him wanted Jackson to slide his hand up Stiles' arm just to see if he could still feel it. Jackson's touch was so much gentler, kinder, than the harsh bullets of scalding water from that morning.

When they reached their destination, an unassuming entrance with the name Waxy O'Conners in gold lettering above a glass door, they both flashed their IDs and stepped inside. The pub was lit by the soft glow of yellow lights and Jackson tugged him passed the first bar and under an overhang to-

"Wow."

Stiles pressed himself against the edge of the wooden platform which branched off into two winding stair cases that twisted around a large tree lit by lights from below. The shadows of its bare and tangled branches stretched out across the cavernous ceiling, and yet they didn't seem threatening, just...inviting. He traced the staircases with his gaze, following their paths to other platforms and bars and down colorfully lit hallways.

"This is amazing," Stiles said, eyes bright as he turned back around to face Jackson. "And it's like...empty. How can this place possibly be empty?"

"It's early and it's a weekday. Now, can we get drinks and find a good place to sit before people _do_ start to arrive?" Jackson's words were mean but his voice was anything but and there was an actual smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

Jackson led them back to the bar and ordered them a pint of something fancy sounding before leading the way up a steep staircase. The balcony they walked out on to overlooked the gigantic tree and Stiles eagerly took a seat closest to the edge, the giddy feeling in his chest refusing to leave.

"You a lightweight?" Jackson asked.

Stiles grabbed the pint. "Don't think so. I've never had just...a drink like this. Only straight whiskey a few times and that pretty much destroyed me."

Jackson snorted. "Right. Go slow."

"Okay _dad_." Stiles took a small sip though, smacking his lips as he mulled over the taste. "What is it?"

"Alcoholic cider. Didn't want to start you on something too hard," Jackson said.

Stiles stuck his tongue out at him before he took his next sip, flushing when Jackson outright smiled at him in response. The silence between them drew his attention to the music playing through the speakers hidden out of sight by the decorations.

"Is this..."

"Irish rock," Jackson said. "It was so not my thing, but I don't know. It's catchy. It grows on you."

"How'd you even find this place?" Stiles asked, taking a deeper swallow of his drink.

"Accident. Coworkers asked me out to drinks and I walked in here instead of this place down the street. Decided to come back later on my own," Jackson said.

"Wait...what age do people think you are?" Stiles asked.

"Twenty. My parents pulled some strings and pretty much everyone will take a bribe," Jackson said.

"You're ridiculous."

Jackson just shrugged and took another drink. They continued that way in companionable silence, the occasional comment slipping out as the pub began to fill with more and more people. It never quite reached the capacity of the club and the atmosphere remained light, almost sickeningly cheery, but either way, Stiles found that the panic usually so engrained in his mind was distant.

Perhaps it had something to do with the warmth the drink gave him, the light buzz he got after two pints. Everything felt fuzzy and golden and he exchanged easy smiles and jokes with Jackson across the table. It was nice to feel loose without the loss of control.

Of course that meant something had to ruin it, and ruined it was as Jackson returned with their third round of drinks. They clinked glasses and took a sip. As Jackson eased back in his chair, he fixed Stiles with his annoyingly penetrating stare.

"You never said what set you off last night," Jackson said. "I just want to avoid fucking it up for you again."

"Yeah, well, asking that question is definitely fucking it up for me," Stiles said. He glanced away from Jackson to follow the twisted shadows of the tree with his gaze, trying to lose himself in his surroundings before Jackson tugged him back into reality.

Under the table, Jackson's leg slid up against his, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his jeans. Stiles bit his lip, hating how the simple touch made him feel _better_. He didn't _want_ to feel good if he was going to be talking about the shit in his head that was supposed to make him feel the exact opposite of fuzzy and golden.

"If you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to I just...think you'll feel better," Jackson said.

"Right, yeah, I get it, but I was kinda hoping this night could stay...good," Stiles said as he met Jackson.

"Then don't tell me."

Except the thing was, Stiles _wanted_ to. Jackson's eyes were open, his expression receptive and actually fucking readable for once, and the warmth of his leg against Stiles'...it all combined in some bizarre mixture that made Stiles feel _safe_. Of course, that could've been the alcohol talking, but Stiles knew that was just an excuse. The alcohol just took down the wall made up of his anxiety and his need to keep everything, good and bad, _out_.

Stiles knew what was behind that wall, he'd always known. It was the stupid eight-year-old boy that wanted to cry and let out all his pain and ask someone, _beg_ them, to help lighten his load. Ask someone to hug him and tell him it would be okay even if they both knew it was a lie.

"I thought I saw Allison. And I thought I heard her say it was all my fault and I don't know how to accept that she's wrong," Stiles said. The words escaped him in a rush, anxiety rising up with it because admitting it, admitting such weakness, was so fucking _wrong_. It left him open and exposed and now Jackson could hurt him.

"I still hear Matt sometimes. It's...okay," Jackson said. "Well, actually, it's probably a sign there's something wrong with us, I'm just trying to say I get it. My guilt likes to talk to me to."

"We couldn't just have nightmares like regular people. Our guilt is _special_. It needs to communicate with us through fucked up hallucinations," Stiles said, sarcasm and bitterness thick in his tone.

Jackson laughed, an actual laugh too, not just his usual snort to acknowledge something funny had been said. "God we are _so_ fucked up, Stilinski."

Stiles couldn't help a slightly hysterical giggle, which he would definitely blame on the alcohol later. "Dude, what happens if I get in a fight with my guilt? If I argue with her, will Scott get mad that I'm arguing with his dead ex-girlfriend?"

"What the fuck?" Jackson kicked Stiles' shin under the table, but the smile on his face was genuine. "Seriously, I don't understand how you reach half the conclusions you do."

"Hey, you asked, I told. I don't have to explain _why_ my brain works the way it does," Stiles said. "I feel like we shouldn't be laughing about this."

"What, so we gotta cry about it every time we bring it up?" Jackson asked.

"Guess not. Better than the alternative, yeah," Stiles said. "I'm tired of being upset all the time but every time I start getting better...something yanks me back. That time I guess my brain just decided to make me see Allison."

"I'd say eventually it stops but...it's been more than a year and I can still hear Matt ordering me around and...worse," Jackson said, expression scrunching up. "You should tell someone when it happens though. Makes it easier to deal with I think."

"Can't imagine saying that shit to Scott," Stiles said, his laugh tinged with bitterness. "He'd get all concerned."

"Well I'm not Scott." Jackson's leg pressed up harder against his, and it might've been a trick of the light but Stiles would have sworn the blue of his eyes began to glow.

 _There's the territorial type of werewolf I'm used to,_ Stiles thought. "I am quite aware of that. You don't smile as much. And you're easier to talk to. Which is weird."

Jackson shrugged. "Not really. I've changed a lot. So have you."

"Yeah." Stiles nudged Jackson's knee with his own. "Thanks, by the way. For trying so hard to help."

"I don't mind, but you're welcome."

They spent some time nursing their third and final drinks slowly. Their conversation turned to easier topics, an exchange of stupid stories from the month or so from the relative peace between Jennifer's death and the Nogitsune's appearance. Jackson had his fair share of stories as well, about people Stiles had never met but Stiles almost preferred it that way. It was easier to poke fun at people he knew weren't fighting for their lives against things from humanity's collective nightmares.

The atmosphere of the pub helped too. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he'd been so at ease, or the last time he _didn't_ have to struggle to stay truly present in his body and aware of his surroundings. His mind was more than eager to disconnect under normal circumstances. Being present just hurt too much to handle sometimes but this was different. Maybe it was the alcohol. Stiles didn't think so, but if it was, he wasn't really surprised how often his father had turned to the drink after Claudia's death. The feeling was certainly addicting.

But really, he hoped the lightness he felt in his chest had more to do with Jackson's presence and where they were than his drink. The idea of having a place to come to that felt so relaxing was a comfortable thing to have access to, even if he was only there for another week. He didn't expect that thought to hurt so much. He also didn't expect to have gotten close to Jackson so damn quickly, but he supposed that wasn't a bad thing.

When they left the pub two hours later, Stiles could tell the wolfsbane allowing Jackson to achieve his buzz was starting to wear off. The flush left his cheeks and the smiles grew less frequent. By the time they reached Jackson's flat, the stiffness was back in the other's shoulders.

"You okay then?" Jackson asked as they put their hands on the door handles of their respective doors on opposite sides of the hall. "Better, at least."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles said. "You?"

"Mmm."

It wasn't a yes and it wasn't a no, but Stiles wouldn't have been able to press him anyways because he slid into his room and shut the door before Stiles could even start to think of a response. Stiles let out an exaggerated sigh to ensure Jackson could hear his frustration and then retreated to his own room.

 

-.-

 

Stiles didn't remember falling asleep. He had to count the blood stained fingers on one hand to realize he had three too many and it wasn't Allison's literal blood on his hands. The katana slid out of his shaking fingers. The skin of his hands began to unravel as it fell and by the time the blade clattered to the ground, his hands were nothing but dirty bandages pooled at his feet.

His knees hit the ground with a painful thump and he cursed whoever claimed no one could feel pain in a dream because clearly they've never had so much experience to draw on. He tried desperately to gather up the bandages, but he continued to unravel until there was nothing left.

He woke up unable to breath and he flailed out with one hand to snag the edge of his bag and haul it closer. His fingers struggled with the zippers but eventually his hand closed around the plastic of Scott's inhaler and he shoved it in his mouth, pressing down the button and sucking in a painful breath. He waited a beat and then did it again before tossing the inhaler aside and flopping back on his bed.

The light clicked on and Stiles gave a pained groan, covering his eyes with his forearm. Jackson coughed and then stepped into the room.

"You alright?"

"Fucking great, thanks for asking," Stiles said.

"Isn't that McCall's inhaler?"

"Use your damn nose."

"Why do you have it?"

Stiles let his arm flop back down and dangle off the edge of his bed before turning his head to look at Jackson. "Helps with the panic attacks."

"And you couldn't get your own because...?"

Stiles huffed out a harsh laugh. "Because I'm poor and don't want to make my dad worry. Jesus Christ, what does it matter? Are you seriously getting territorial about a fucking inhaler dude, because now _really_ isn't the time."

Jackson frowned, folding his arms across his chest. "Sorry, wasn't aware of it. Hasn't happened before."

Stiles waved a dismissive hand and looked back up at the ceiling. "It's whatever. Concerned werewolves always get territorial about dumbass shit, I'm over it."

"Mmm."

"Would you stop that?" Stiles snapped, jerking upright.

Jackson's eyes widened, his expression surprised. "Stop what?"

"That stupid noise that sounds like you're judging...something. It's not even me," Stiles said. "I don't know what it is you're judging."

"Sorry?"

"Whatever. Why are you still here?"

"I was worried. I heard you," Jackson said with a thread of annoyance in his voice.

"Yeah, well, I'm not dead or whatever so go away."

"You don't want to talk-"

"No, I don't want to talk about it, go the fuck away," Stiles said.

He felt a bit like he'd kicked a puppy when Jackson's shoulders slumped and he slunk out of the room, but he didn't apologize. It wasn't like Jackson legitimately cared about it. Stiles had seen enough territorial pissing contests between Scott, Derek, and Peter, not to mention a damn Alpha Pack not to notice the signs. Sure, he knew that overall Jackson seemed to care. But this? This was all about Scott's fucking scent on a hunk of plastic he hadn't touched in two god damn years.

Then again, it wasn't like Jackson could help himself. He was alone, without a pack, so of course he didn't like the idea of someone he was living with getting comfort out of something else. It made sense. Which meant he had to apologize.

"Fuck."

Stiles rolled out of bed and padded across the hall. He gave a cursory knock and then opened the door without thinking. He wasn't quite sure how to deal with what he saw once he did so. The room was sparse in its furnishings and the walls were a plain white with a small twin bed tucked into the far corner opposite of the closet doors. It was the walls that were so difficult to look at.

Pictures. Pictures that Stiles knew too well from spending hours pouring over yearbooks and staring at names and faces as he tried to make some sort of sense out of all the killings the kanima had done. They covered the walls from floor to ceiling, their smiling faces like some sort of sick joke, a twisted prank, and he understood then how Jackson would be incapable of letting his guilt go. How could he when he built himself a tomb of constantly judging eyes?

"Jackson, what the fuck."

Jackson was on his feet but Stiles had never seen him look so small in his baggy white shirt and grey sweats. His expression, so nonchalant and aloof, crumpled and Stiles barely made it across the room in time to grab him and stop him from falling over.

Stiles guided them over to Jackson's bed to make him sit, then backed away to give him space. He couldn't quite figure out what had driven Jackson into such a panicked state, though if he were to hazard a guess, he'd say it had something to do with invading Jackson's space. Regardless, he was glad he had barged in. Whatever it was Jackson thought he was doing, it was obviously not helping.

Stiles glanced around and located a box of tissues on the small nightstand. He grabbed it and took a seat next to Jackson, holding it out wordlessly as the werewolf began to calm back down. Stiles knew better than to interfere with someone having a panic attack, especially since he didn't want to make it worse and end up with his throat clawed out. After a few more tense moments, Jackson accepted the tissues and wiped at his eyes.

"You alright there?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah sorry it's just..." Jackson trailed off, gaze rooted to the floor.

"I invaded your space without thinking. Without getting your consent," Stiles finished.

Jackson's resulting sigh was heavy. "Yeah, I guess. I'm trying to be mad at you but I'm too fucking tired."

"Yeah, me too. We are both such a hot mess. Just saying," Stiles said. "So we gonna talk about all this?"

Jackson looked up and glanced over the pictures on his walls. "I'm supposed to be helping you though. This is my problem."

Stiles scoffed. "We are so passed that point. I'm opening up to you. You gotta do the same especially because _this_..." Stiles gestured at the walls. "...it isn't good."

"I just want to sleep," Jackson said. "And I know you're tired too."

"Fine. But you aren't sleeping in here," Stiles said. "Not unless you take this shit down."

"I can't."

"Then go sleep on my bed. I'll stay here. We can talk tomorrow."

"Mmm."

Jackson got to his feet and shuffled out of the room and Stiles flopped onto his bed with a heavy sigh of his own. It sort of helped calm the panic in his own chest, taking charge of someone like that. He was sure if he had a therapist, they would say it was because he liked having control over some situation again.

Stiles wanted to tear down the pictures but he turned the light off and curled up on the bed facing the opposite direction instead. If just _walking_ into the room had triggered a panic attack, he didn't want to know what would happen if he changed it. At least Jackson's problems helped distract him from his own. That didn't help him sleep any easier.

 

-.-

 

The next morning, Jackson dropped a backpack on Stiles' chest to wake him up.

"Pack clothes for three days. I need to get out of here and you're coming with me," Jackson said.

Stiles rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, blinking rapidly. "Um. What."

"Hurry up," Jackson said.

He opened his closet and began pulling out clothes as Stiles rolled out of bed. Stiles wanted to protest but then his gaze found the smiling pictures and he thought, _yeah, let's get the fuck out of here_. He changed his clothes and packed the bag Jackson had given him. It didn't take long, but Jackson was still pacing anxiously in the living room when he got there.

"Can we stop for coffee at least?" Stiles asked as they headed out of the flat.

"Yeah, whatever."

Stiles was barely able to keep up with Jackson as they practically ran to the tube station. He knew on some level that he should object to what they were doing given that it was a textbook definition of running away from their problems, but then he decided fuck it. He needed time away from the shit that stressed him out so it made sense Jackson would need the same.

They changed lines twice before finally heading to the street level once more. Jackson gestured to a small coffee shop across the way and stayed right where he was. Stiles bit back a sarcastic response and headed across the street. He almost wished he'd never walked into Jackson's room because completely silent Jackson was way harder to deal with than perpetually annoyed Jackson.

"Do you even know where we're going?" Stiles asked as they headed up the busy street.

"No. Figured we'll just grab whatever tickets are available," Jackson said.

"This is insane."

"Mmm."

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something he'd regret. They reached the Victoria Coach Station five minutes later, which was significantly less impressive than Stiles thought it would be. He waited, hovering over Jackson's shoulder, as Jackson stabbed angrily at the buttons of the ticket machine until it spat out two tickets for them. Stiles grabbed his and looked down at their destination.

"Cardiff?"

"Problem?"

"Uh, no. Just. Isn't that where that one show is filmed?"

"Dr. Who? Yeah. C'mon. Our gate is this way."

Stiles trailed after him, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Jackson actually watched nerdy shows. When they arrived at the gate, their bus was almost ready to leave. The bus driver was not impressed when they ran up as he was about to board. They climbed up the narrow staircase to where the rows of tightly packed seats were and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief when he realized the bus was almost completely empty.

He realized that perhaps that's why Jackson had picked that specific bus. Maybe there had been empty seats on the other one but if there was one with more empty space than not? Well, that was good for both of them.

They ended up sitting near the back and Jackson nabbed the window seat. Stiles wasn't surprised to see Jackson curl up on himself in the corner given that's what he'd been feeling like doing on a regular basis. He settled for the seat next to Jackson and then pulled out his headsets. Clearly Jackson wasn't talking, so Stiles settled himself in for a long, boring ride.

 

-.-

 

Despite the coffee, Stiles ended up falling into a dreamless sleep twenty minutes in. He woke up to discover that he'd cuddled into Jackson's side and was using the other's shoulder as a pillow. Jackson was passed the fuck out though, so Stiles didn't feel too bad about it. He looked out the window and realized they were making their way through a new city, one that had street signs in two different languages.

After pulling away, Stiles nudged Jackson in the side to wake him up. Jackson just shifted away

"Dude, we're almost here. Wake your stupid werewolf ass up," Stiles said, voice hushed.

Another elbow to the ribs did the trick.

"Oh, right, sorry," Jackson said. "You okay?"

"You pretty much kidnapped me for a spontaneous unplanned vacation and you're asking me if _I'm_ okay?"

"Point taken." Jackson tugged out his phone. "I'll get us a hotel. Will that calm you down?"

"That would be a start."

By the time they reached the bus stop, Jackson had locked down a room for them.

"It's on the bay, it'll have a nice view."

"We're in a city neither of us know _shit_ about, but that's fine because our room has a nice view," Stiles said, struggling to keep his voice down as they exited the bus.

"Sorry. I just needed to get out of that place," Jackson said.

Stiles sighed. "It's fine, I guess. So how do we get to this hotel with a good view?"

"Don't know. Let's just take a cab," Jackson said.

"You're lucky you're rich," Stiles said.

Jackson didn't disagree, only leading the way over to a line of cabs down the street. Stiles let Jackson do all the talking, the anxiety of the whole situation finally starting to creep through him. It was one thing to be in London because at least Jackson knew his way around the place, but after last night his faith in Jackson's abilities was a little shaken.

"You okay?" Jackson asked after telling the driver where they were going. "You look a little..."

"Just shut up Jackson."

The ride passed in silence and after ten or so minutes, they got dropped off in an alleyway outside a Tesco. Jackson paid and they crawled out of the cab and headed down the alley, Jackson in the lead. They rounded a corner and the tall buildings opened up all at once onto a boardwalk overlooking the bay.

Stiles irritation melted away between one breath and the next, the sound of the ocean, the bright sun, the chattering of passerbys, all of it blending together into something so fucking beautiful it took his breath away. Docks jutted out into the water at the lower level, tour boats bobbing as their passengers boarded. It was an odd assortment of people, both those who were local and those who were obviously tourists. It was busy but in a way that was different from the packed streets of London. The people in London always looked angry but there were more smiles here and the overall mood was so damn infectious.

"Wow," Stiles said, a smile stretching his lips.

"Yeah. Guess I made a good choice," Jackson said, the tension bleeding out of his voice with every word.

"So where's our hotel?" Stiles asked.

Jackson pointed. "Right there."

Stiles followed the path of his finger, eyes widening when he realized what Jackson was pointing at. A large chunk of land jutted out onto the bay and on it sat a large white building with big windows with a swooping arch of elegant metal stretching out across the top.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Yeah. We should...go check in."

"Fuck yeah."

Stiles grabbed Jackson's wrist and started pulling him along at a brisk walk, a strange giddiness filling up his chest. It was like the night before only stronger. The colors of the sky, the ocean, even the clothes of the people they passed by, it was all so much brighter now, vibrant. He was acutely aware of the breeze brushing across his skin and soothing the warmth from the heat of the sun.

Perhaps Jackson's impromptu trips weren't that bad of an idea.

 

-.-

 

They ended up not spending time in the room, not even bothering to check it over as they chucked their bags inside. Their focus was on getting back to the pier, the fresh air, and that odd, floating on clouds feeling the whole place gave off. Of course, their immediate plans were side-tracked by Jackson's bottomless pit of a stomach. Stiles let Jackson lead the way, deciding it was best to follow the werewolf's finer senses.

"You're like a-"

"Do not finish that sentence if you value your life Stilinski," Jackson said, elbowing him in the ribs. "Seafood okay?"

"Whatever you want man."

They rounded the corner, which opened up to a large oval plaza ringed with tall, beige columns. Children ran around in the middle playing tag and catch. There were a few teenagers skating around as well, and couples and parents walking with their kids, a mixture of people of all ages. It was hard to feel out of place.

Jackson grabbed his wrist and tugged him into a small seafood restaurant. They picked a seat by the window, the silence between them feeling companionable like the night before instead of awkward. Stiles spent a few moments staring out the window himself before glancing back at Jackson. Jackson was staring out the window as well, a sort of zoned out look in his eyes. Stiles almost didn't want to say anything because there was a smile playing at the edges of Jackson's lips and he knew how rare those were. He didn't want to ruin it.

But he had to. As good as the city felt to him, he couldn't just _ignore_ the reason they were there in the first place. He waited until they had been brought their drinks before stretching out his legs to knock his knees up against Jackson's. The action grabbed Jackson's attention back from wherever it had wandered and Stiles offered a tentative smile when their eyes met.

"Hey...so..." Stiles trailed off.

"Not yet, alright?" Jackson turned back to the window. "After we eat."

"Right."

           

-.-

 

After their meal, Jackson took the lead again. They crossed the open plaza and for once, the open air didn't make it feel like he was vulnerable and exposed. Over the last few months, he'd struggled between the two extremes; afraid of tight spaces, but also afraid of the defenseless nature of open areas. It made it hard to ever feel safe, but here, more than France or London, Stiles felt like he actually _was._ They were far away from anything they knew. They were in unfamiliar territory. No one knew them. No one wanted to hurt them. They had time to sit and figure things out for themselves.

"Where do you wanna go?" Stiles asked as they began to walk along the side of the large red church. "We gotta talk man. Just figured you didn't want to be around people when we did."

Jackson sighed and leaned up against the side of the church wall, glancing around as he did so. Stiles hesitated a moment and then leaned on the wall beside him. He pushed the length of his body against Jackson's and just as he suspected, the tension within him drained right out. He'd learned that technique with Scott and had noticed it between Isaac, and Boyd, and Derek. The simple reassurance that they weren't alone went a long way.

"How about there?" Jackson pointed out across a narrower strip of water that emptied out into the bay to a long blue warehouse building.

There were empty benches there with a few, scattered young trees planted on either side of them.

"Sure. C'mon."

Stiles pulled away from the wall and started to walk towards the road. The road itself wound up towards the tip of the small peninsula and across the water that spilled into the bay and he guessed it would take a bit of time to walk it. He didn't think either of them would mind the time to gather their thoughts.

Jackson hung close to Stiles, their shoulders and hands brushing every few seconds as they walked. Stiles was reminded of the way he'd practically clung to Isaac. For another beat of hesitation, Stiles did nothing, but then he reached out and took Jackson's hand in his own. He was nervous that it was too forward of him, that such an action would actually urge Jackson to shore up all his defenses once more, but whatever broke in Jackson last night seemed to have broken for good. Jackson tightened his grip on Stiles' hand and pressed close into his side.

Stiles sighed, relaxing at Jackson's acceptance of the comfort he offered. They didn't get any weird looks which was a relief too. He wasn't totally sure how he was supposed to feel about it, if his need to comfort Jackson came from a romantic place or a kinship because he got it. He got what Jackson was feeling. It was hard to articulate it, and he wasn't sure how else to do it outside reaching out and letting him know he wasn't going anywhere.

At least not yet.

As they reached the tip of the peninsula, he realized the large grey building was actually the Doctor Who Experience building. He shot Jackson a pointed look but Jackson just rolled his eyes in response. They continued passed it towards the less crowded strip of road with the large warehouse Jackson had pointed to earlier. It was less crowded there and the further they walked, the less people there were.

Stiles released Jackson's hand as he rounded the edge of the last bench to take a seat. A chain link fence stood between them and the water but the view of the red church, and the water tower, and the golden brown theater that reflected back the sunlight was still spectacular.

Stiles wondered if he should say something. It didn't feel like Jackson _wanted_ to remain silent, so he kept his mouth shut and let Jackson gather his thoughts on his own. Scott and his dad asked him a lot of questions when he'd first escaped his possession, but they were questions he'd never known how to answer, so he'd defaulted to false platitudes instead. He didn't want to make Jackson do that, not when Jackson had tried so hard to make him comfortable.

"It isn't...guilt. Not exactly," Jackson said after a moment. "The pictures are a reminder of what I've done so I don't ever go back to that place. If the people I killed are always watching me, I can't hurt anyone again."

"Sounds like straight up guilt to me," Stiles said.

"It's not though. How can it be if it's keeping me from doing something like that again?" Jackson asked. It should've sounded defensive, and yet it sounded earnest, like Jackson truly believed what he was saying.

"You don't need those pictures to tell you to be a good person, Jackson," Stiles said. "You're just punishing yourself if you keep those around."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because Matt had _complete_ control over you. It wasn't your fault," Stiles said as he got to his feet and swung around to stand directly in front of Jackson.

Jackson glared up at him. "Yeah? Then Allison's death isn't your fault either."

Stiles hesitated, chest tightening. "That's...not the same."

"Yes it is. It is exactly the same and you know it!"

"Then what do we do, Jackson? What the _fuck_ do we do?" Stiles grabbed Jackson's shoulders and glared right back at him. "How do we convince each other that it's okay?"

"We don't." Jackson knocked Stiles' hands away. "Maybe it _isn't_ our fault, but that is never going to make their deaths okay. That's why I need those pictures, alright? Because if I start to feel better, that means I'm accepting that what I did was okay."

Stiles stepped back as the words ricocheted around in his head because _damn_ it, Jackson was right. That was exactly the fucking problem. If he started to heal, that was taking a step in accepting Allison's death, and how could anyone do that? For fuck's sake, it wasn't like he'd even accepted his mother's death.

"Then why lecture me about my guilt if we both deserve it?" Stiles asked, shoulders slumping.      

"Because I don't want you to feel like this too. I wouldn't wish it on anyone," Jackson said.

"Jesus Christ."

Stiles sat down on the bench once more with a heavy sigh. They were so fucked. Whoever thought they'd be able to help each other was an idiot.

"What do we do?" Stiles asked.

"I don't know, I'm sorry."

 

-.-

 

They ended up parting ways, agreeing to meet up in the plaza at sunset for dinner. Stiles stayed where he was and let Jackson get a head start heading back to the actual city. He needed to think over what Jackson said anyways.

Despite not knowing the area, he didn't feel too worried. There were enough landmarks around that he couldn't possibly get lost. Being alone with his thoughts? That was the opposite of comforting. All he could do was follow the circular argument of their conversation, the constant reiteration of: how could they forgive each other but not themselves? It really was the same thing. They'd both been emotionally vulnerable and allowed for someone to step in and take them over. They'd allowed someone to use their body for their own purposes.

But had they really? Stiles thought back to how hard he fought. How he'd screamed and clawed at the Nogitsune from the inside, trying to get that control back but no matter what he'd done it was never enough. That didn't mean he wasn't trying though. He'd had nightmares about it, that he was still clawing his way out. He wondered if Jackson could remember fighting.

Stiles got to his feet and jammed his hands in his pocket before heading back the way he came. The sun was starting to set, though he imagined they'd still have a few hours of sunlight left. He kept his pace slow, not in any particular rush to get anywhere. He found himself fixating on the tall, silver water tower that had caught his gaze earlier.

Walking across the open plaza alone was different than walking across it with Jackson at his side. He didn't feel paralyzing vulnerability but he was more nervous and the white noise that always seemed to crackle through his head when ever part of him demanded he disconnect from the stress in his life seemed to grow louder. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until he reached the other end of the plaza and stood before the mirror-like water tower.       

It was a weird landmark. So was the curved Millennium Theater at his back. None of it seemed to gel quite right together, a patchwork of various takes on beauty pieced together with all their harsh edges forced to interlock. Stiles found himself staring at his distorted reflection in the mirrored panels of the water tower. It actually felt like the first true reflection of himself he'd seen. All jagged edges, bits and pieces never meant to be together, yet sewn up by steel thread, forcing him into existence when everything in him wanted to fall apart.

Stiles shook out his arms and moved around the tower to reach the bench that faced the street. He took a seat and let out a harsh breath before flopping back across the wide bench. At this angle, the tower was almost invisible. It perfectly reflected the movements of the clouds. Stiles took another deep breath and began to count as he let it out, repeating the process until his heart rate began to slow back down to normal.

The white noise faded, but so did everything else. He stared up at the fine line between the tower and sky and lost himself in the incoherent, half-formed thoughts. The hunger for pain was still curled within him. He was more aware of it now in his calm and relaxed state, and it didn't scare him as much to think about it. It didn't feel as ominous, like it was just waiting to take him over. It wasn't a threat unless he let it be.

He wanted to be like the tower, full of cracks but cracks that fit neatly together and created a sturdy armor. Not like a patchwork city of old and new, full of contradictions. He knew Allison's death was his fault after all, but maybe if he just accepted it as a part of him, he could move on. Still be broken but the broken piece could fit in with the rest.

Perhaps that was too optimistic for his circumstances. Jackson was right after all. Maybe they couldn't erase the guilt but they needed a more valid way to deal with it because what they _were_ doing wasn't helpful at all. It was a great sentiment; Stiles even believed it. That didn't mean he actually knew what to do to fix it.

In the end, all he wanted was to stop hurting so much. He wanted to make the hurt parts work with the rest. Was it even possible to forgive himself and accept all the fragmented parts without somehow getting passed his guilt? Logically, he knew it wasn't possible. That would require a level of internalized double think Stiles didn't think he was capable of. Which led back to the whole question of whether or not Jackson was even right to begin with.

Another deep sigh blew passed Stiles' lips and he shifted to put his hands under his head to cushion it. What Jackson said _had_ made sense. If they forgave themselves for the deaths that resulted from their weakness, that would be acknowledging that those deaths were okay. But that wasn't true because if it were, that was admitting that he and Jackson deserved their nightmares and misery and Stiles couldn't just accept that because he wanted to be happy. He deserved a bit of good in his life because he'd been through hell, was still fucking going through it and had no one but himself to pull his own head above the god damn water. He was the only one who could accept his mistakes for what they were.

Mistakes.

He'd fucked up, but he'd done the best he could. Allison was dead and that would never stop hurting but he couldn't blame himself for something he'd tried to stop. He'd screwed up his own soul, had _died_ , to save his father and that had left him broken enough to let something in but he'd do it all over again because that was the only choice he'd had. He'd done his best. The fallout wasn't his fault. All he could do was pick the broken parts up and build them into something stronger than before. Learn from his weakness and shore up his defenses. Lean on people for support and seal up the cracks. Keep the bad out but let the good in.

A smile tugged at his lips. That...that was doable. Not easy but if he kept the end goal in mind, convinced himself that he was almost out of the water, that happiness he wanted so desperately was achievable. Wanting to be happy was not at odds with being sad and downright furious about Allison's death. He was allowed to grieve, to be angry at his own weakness, but he was allowed to accept her death and his mistakes too. That didn't make her death okay. All it meant was that he was going to let himself be happy anyways.

_And that doesn't make me a bad person._

Stiles closed his eyes and took another deep breath before sitting up and opening his eyes. The sound of the nearby fountain, the chatter of a passing tour group, and the squealing laughter of a child, it all flooded into his senses brighter than before, dispelling the muffled white noise that clouded his thoughts. It wasn't perfect yet, but the feeling in his chest had loosened considerably. All he had to do was convince Jackson.

 

-.-

 

They ended up meeting in the plaza and then grabbing takeout before heading back to their hotel. Their room, now that Stiles actually got the time to look at it, was fucking impressive. The wall facing out over the bay was one huge window framed by two tall lamps that stretched to the ceiling. The large canopied king sized bed was on the opposite wall of the window so its occupants could see out over the bay and then there was the _bathroom_. It was a huge masterpiece of marble tile and porcelain. The shower had two showerheads and there was a freaking bath big enough for five people. Stiles was pretty confident the bathroom alone was worth half his house.

They ate their food seated across from each other at a small glass table on their small balcony. Jackson didn't look any better. He looked how Stiles had felt, still did feel to some degree. Stiles finished first and spent the rest of his time watching Jackson out of the corner of his eye as he looked out over the bay. He knew what he needed to convince Jackson of, but he wasn't sure he could find the right words to convince him. Yes, they'd gone through a lot of shit, a lot of the same shit, but they were different people and-

"You were wrong." The words popped out of Stiles' mouth without permission.

"Yeah?" Jackson raised an eyebrow.

"Yup," Stiles said. "Because we shouldn't be guilty. And I'm going to convince you I'm right."

"Feel free," Jackson said, sounding tired and resigned.

He wouldn't meet Stiles' eyes, and Stiles wasn't sure if that meant he was doubting himself or doubting Stiles. For a moment, Stiles didn't move or say anything. Then, he stretched out his legs to twist with Jackson's, refusing to let the other brush it off as an accident as he used the leverage to yank him a little closer to the table. Jackson looked up, unable to continue looking away.

"You said you're using your guilt as a reminder, right? A reminder not to be weak and let someone in," Stiles said. "But you don't need that guilt or those stupid fucking pictures as a reminder because you shouldn't feel guilty at all. Neither of us should."

"And why the hell not, Stilinski? Tell me how you and I get off guilt free," Jackson said. The anger was back in his eyes, which was good because Stiles could work with anger.

"We fucked up, Jackson. That doesn't mean we have to forsake any chance we could get at happiness," Stiles said. "You've been here more than a year and you aren't even _close_ to feeling any better or healing. We aren't going to get anywhere if we don't accept that we screwed up and move on."

"So you're just ready to move on from Allison's death?" Jackson asked, the disbelieving note in his voice harsh in Stiles' ears. "You hallucinate that you still see her. How are you going to move on from that? How am I supposed to move on from hearing Matt's voice in my head? Tell me that."

"I've got to move on," Stiles said. "Jesus, I never even moved on from my mom's death and look where that got me. She's gone. So is Matt. So is everyone else we caused the death of. No amount of guilt is going to bring them back or stop us from screwing up again, so there's no fucking point in making ourselves miserable, or punishing ourselves. What the fuck does that accomplish?"

Jackson's eyes flashed a bright blue and he jerked to his feet to head back into the room. Stiles didn't hesitate to follow after him, reaching out to grab his wrist. Unsurprisingly, Jackson whirled and threw Stiles up against the wall beside the balcony door, one hand wrapped loosely around Stiles' throat as he used the rest of his body to keep him pinned.

"I don't _deserve_ that rosy, happy ending you seem to think I do," Jackson said, his voice a low hiss. "I don't, okay? Yeah, you got Allison killed, but you _did_ screw up and you don't deserve that guilt Stiles, because you _are_ a good person. I'm not."

"No?" Stiles asked. He reached up with one hand and swiped a thumb along Jackson's cheekbone to stop a few of the tears that had started to trail from Jackson's eyes. "You sure about that?"

Jackson's hand trembled and released Stiles. He rubbed a hand down his face and turned away, shoulders hunching forward and Stiles _had_ to reach out and pull him back. Jackson fought the grip at first but Stiles didn't let him go, only tugging him closer and _finally_ , Jackson gave in. He folded inward and began to cry, choked sobs coming out muffled against Stiles' chest.

Stiles leaned back against the wall and wrapped his arms tight around Jackson's shoulders. For all that they had in common, Stiles couldn't fathom the self-hatred Jackson seemed to be filled with. Yeah, Stiles felt guilty, but he didn't hate himself. Not like this.

"You're a good person, Jackson," Stiles said, voice hushed as Jackson stopped shaking. "You don't have to keep punishing yourself."

"I can't...believe that," Jackson said, but he didn't pull away so Stiles counted it as a victory. "If I don't, who will? It's not like anyone's about to throw me in jail."

"You aren't deserving of any of it. That's the whole point Jackson. We screwed up. We feel like shit. That was our punishment, but if we don't move on we can't learn, and if we don't do that then what's the point?" Stiles asked. "What does constantly feeling like shit accomplish?"

Jackson pulled away, head bowed as he did so. "Nothing but I...I don't know how to feel different. I guess being broken just...started to feel safe."

"Yeah, it does," Stiles said. "Look, Jackson, just because I want to move passed this pain doesn't mean I have. We have to try and be happy even with the broken parts. There's more to us than just the bad, you know?"

Jackson gave a shaky laugh, finally looking back up at Stiles with red-rimmed eyes. "What's good about me?"

"You are such a dumbass," Stiles sighed, leaning forward and gripping the back of Jackson's neck to press their foreheads together. "You're taking care of me. You care about the people you've hurt, and no matter what you say, I _know_ you still care about Danny and Lydia. Caring about people makes you a good person."

"Stiles-"

"No, shut up a second," Stiles said, gripping Jackson's neck tighter. "Even if you're convinced you're a bad person, that doesn't mean you don't have the potential to be a good one."

Jackson looked like he was about to start crying again and Stiles couldn't handle that, so he pushed himself forward and shoved their lips together hard instead. Jackson opened up to him without hesitation. His hands fell to Stiles' hips, gripping tight and yanking him close, and it felt like some sort of floodgate had finally burst open and everything they'd both been feeling, all of the good and the bad, it spilled out between them.

Stiles wanted to cry because as they clutched each other, fingers twisting in the fabric of one another's shirts, he felt like he wasn't alone anymore and he'd spent so long being worried that he was too broken for anyone to ever really get him. And he wasn't saying they weren't fucked up because they were. They were broken and messy and maybe not completely good, not yet, but they had each other. That had to mean something.

He pushed Jackson down onto the bed and crawled up to brace himself over the other, breaking their lip lock so that they could actually look at one another. Jackson's face was flushed, a slight glow in his blue eyes.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Stiles whispered, and god when did his voice get so _wrecked_.

"I'm thinking that...maybe I can be a good person," Jackson said quietly.

His eyes were blown wide as they stared up into Stiles' and Stiles realized that Jackson wasn't just saying it, he actually believed it. Like hearing someone say was all he needed. He needed someone that was just as fucked up as he was to let him know that he was still a good person, still capable of doing good things, because from anyone else it was just an empty promise.

"Well, good. That was...what I wanted you to realize," Stiles said.

"Do you believe it?" Jackson asked. "About yourself? Because if I'm going to believe you, I need to know you feel the same way about yourself."

"Yeah, I do," Stiles said. "We're...not perfect...I don't think we'll ever be completely better but that's okay too, yeah?"

"Yeah..."

One of Jackson's hands slid up Stiles' back to cup the back of his neck and then he dragged Stiles down for another kiss. This one was gentler than the last, like they had all the time in the world, which Stiles' supposed they did because honestly, three days to do whatever they wanted, it'd be a shame to waste it. He wasn't quite sure what they were doing, only that he wanted more of it. He wanted to possess every inch of Jackson and he wanted Jackson to do the same with him because knowing he wasn't alone and that Jackson really understood him and that he really understood Jackson...it was intoxicating.

It was different, kissing Jackson. He felt like they'd had a total role reversal over the course of the last day. Jackson had always come off as the one who needed control, but he seemed much happier to sink into the mattress and let Stiles lead the way. Stiles shifted to brace himself more completely over Jackson's body.

Jackson moaned and went limp beneath him, fingers barely holding on to Stiles' hips. Stiles kissed him harder in response, bit at Jackson's lips, felt the pain blossom through the werewolf, latched onto it and drank it in and-

"F-Fuck," Stiles said, forcing himself to pull back. "Forgot about-"

"It's fine.  I don't mind. You're not a monster, Stiles," Jackson said as he met Stiles' gaze. "And neither am I. Don't fight it. Just take what you need from me, alright? You're not alone and you don't have to worry about control with me."

Stiles nodded, relief washing through him. Then they were kissing again and Stiles gave in to his instincts completely, nipping at his lower lip and then dropping his face to Jackson's neck instead to suck a temporary bruise against his throat. Jackson's resulting moan and the way he arched up into Stiles' body sent a shiver down Stiles' spine. He didn't pull back until he got a flash of pain and it hit his senses like a rush of energy.

He twisted back long enough to shove Jackson's shirt up and they managed to get it off and toss it on the floor through a combined effort. Stiles started to crouch back over Jackson, but he paused when he saw five pale and ragged marks, scars, just off center of Jackson's stomach. Jackson went tense when he realized what Stiles was staring at. Stiles shifted down the bed and pressed his lips to the first before flicking his gaze up to stare into Jackson's eyes.

Jackson propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze uncertain. Stiles slid his lips over to the one directly to the right, and then over the rest. A hesitant sigh escaped Jackson's lips and his eyes slid shut again, the tension draining back out of him. Stiles pulled back after nipping at the largest mark. Most of his weight rested on Jackson's thighs, but the other didn't seem to mind.

"It's from the game, isn't it? When you..." Stiles fingers trailed over the marks.

Jackson grabbed his wrist, pulling the hand up to his lips and kissing Stiles' fingertips. "Yeah. Derek said they won't....go away. It's the one thing I get to keep with me forever. Reminds me of what I was."

"And that you can heal. That you'll always get better no matter how much it hurts," Stiles said, voice hushed.

"Yeah..." There was a hint of a smile on Jackson's lips.

Stiles surged back up, hand planting firmly on the mattress beside Jackson's head as he kissed him once more. Jackson arched up into him, returning the kiss with just as much fervor. It escalated from there, Stiles unable to help himself from letting his hand roam over Jackson's bare chest and Jackson unable to help the slow roll of his hips up against Stiles'.

Arousal started like a low burning fire in Stiles' gut, but before long, Jackson had him gasping, arms trembling as they rubbed against one another through the fabric of their jeans. Stiles twisted a hand in Jackson's hair, twisting Jackson's head to the side so he could return his lips to Jackson's neck. Jackson freaking keened.

"C'mon, harder Stilinski, you know you want to," Jackson said, a familiar thread of goading confidence entering his voice.

Stiles grinned against his skin and shoved his hips down hard, pinning Jackson. Of course, Jackson could've easily fought him off, but he accepted Stiles' dominance and gave an encouraging moan as Stiles scraped his teeth against the skin. After a moment of hesitation, Stiles bit down. Jackson's breath hissed out fast between his teeth, so Stiles bit down harder until the pleasure tinged pain seeped out of Jackson and into him. Somehow, it was enough to push him over the edge and he came with a choked cry that was muffled against Jackson's neck.

"Fuck _yeah_ Stiles..." Jackson whispered, breathless as Stiles' hips twitched and jerked against him.

Stiles rolled off of him, his dick sensitive in his jeans, but that didn't stop him from reaching out and rubbing the heel of his palm against the bulge in Jackson's pants. Jackson bit his lower lip and Stiles shifted onto his side to get a better grip and a better view. Eyes squeezed shut tight, Jackson rocked up into his hand, and when he came it was with a muffled grunt.

After, Stiles pushed in close to Jackson's side, moving his hand up to loop carelessly over Jackson's stomach. Jackson dropped one hand down to trail his fingers over Stiles' arm. They lay there for a few moments until finally, with a discontented grumble, Stiles pulled away and got to his feet to find his bag.

"Ruined my pants," he said as way of explanation.

"You want me to apologize?" Jackson asked. "Because you started this so that seems a little unfair."

Stiles snorted and pulled a clean pair out. "Nah." He turned and looked back at Jackson, drinking in the sight of the werewolf stretched out on the bed, all loose-limbed and relaxed. "It was definitely worth it. We good?"

Jackson gave him a thumbs up.

 

-.-

 

The next few days were some of the best Stiles had had in a long time. They spent the days roaming around the city and getting horribly lost and the nights reminding one another that they weren't alone, rediscovering that they could bring pleasure just as easily as they could bring pain. By the time they got back on the bus to head back to London, the knot that had been growing tighter and tighter in Stiles' chest had finally loosened.

That didn't stop him from worrying though. Yeah, he'd found some peace in Jackson's company, in his body, in their shared pain, but that didn't mean he was better. That didn't mean he would stay that way once he got back. He didn't expect the thought of leaving Jackson behind to hurt so bad, but after what they'd experienced together, he wasn't sure how he _could_ leave. If he left, he wasn't sure how he'd be able to remind himself that he wasn't alone in his struggle.

And he only had three more nights before he'd be leaving for California. They spent most of the day they arrived back in London lazing around the apartment and they slept in their own rooms that night. Jackson took him to see some of the touristy spots in London the next day and like practically every other night, they picked up takeout on their way back to the apartment.

"We should go back to that pub," Stiles said as he helped Jackson load the dishwasher after dinner. "I've only got two more nights left here and I kinda wanna go back, if that's alright."

"Yeah sure," Jackson said with a shrug. "But first I...want to show you something."

Stiles raised an eyebrow and followed him down the hallway to his room. Jackson opened his bedroom door and Stiles let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he saw the bare walls.

"What'd you do with them? And...when, actually?" Stiles asked.

"Burned 'em," Jackson said as he did a slow turn around the room. "Last night. Just took them outside and did it when you were sleeping."

"And that's it, yeah? You're not going to redo it when I'm gone, right?" Stiles asked.

"I won't," Jackson said. "I promise."

Stiles' lips crooked up into a smile. "Good."

"So then," Jackson said. "Drinks? I think we deserve them."

"Yeah we do," Stiles said. He hesitated a moment, then moved across the room to sneak a quick kiss on Jackson's lips. "Let's go then."

Jackson seemed a bit surprised at his action, but he just smiled in reply.

 

-.-

 

Waxy O'Conners was just as empty as the first night they went. Stiles led the way this time, navigating to where they had sat four nights ago. He'd only bought a Coke, not wanting to blur any of the memories of his contentment. Part of him was apprehensive about leaving. The thoughts forced their way to the forefront of his mind as he sipped at his drink, mind honing in on the way Jackson's legs twined with his and just what that meant.

Things had changed between them. In their desire to affirm that they weren't alone, they had seared each other's presence into one another's skin and Stiles didn't know how you just continued on without each other after that. Jackson nudged his leg under the table with his own, drawing Stiles' gaze away from the tree it had drifted over to examine.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles said. Then he frowned and looked back at Jackson head on. "Okay, not really. I've just been thinking about us. What we did..."

Jackson nodded. "Yeah, I get it. We...kinda just leapt in."

"Honestly, I think I was riding a bit high on my whole life realization thing," Stiles said with a slight wince. "Not to say it didn't mean anything because it did, really. And you mean something to me too and I never actually thought I'd being saying that, no offense or anything. It's just...I feel like leaving you here on your own is some sort of weird injustice. Like I'm leaving you all alone again, like...I'll be alone."

"But we won't be," Jackson said. "You know that right? What we've shared, that doesn't just go away. You've got me and I've got you, alright Stilinski? And that doesn't change just because you're going back to Beacon Hills. We're not alone anymore and if it gets tough on you, you've got to promise to call me or something. I have to know you're okay too."

Stiles was surprised at the conviction in Jackson's voice. He knew what he'd been feeling; this deep connection to someone who knew just what he was experiencing. It didn't hurt to have that reaffirmed through Jackson's words.

"Works for me."

"Don't get me wrong," Jackson said, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not about to say I love you or that I think we should date or whatever other bullshit some people think I should say. But I give a shit about you and I'm not going to pretend that doesn't matter just as much."

"Thanks, Jackson. I...pretty much feel the same," Stiles said with a frown. "Didn't realize you'd gotten any good at actually expressing your emotions."

Jackson snorted out a laugh. "I'm going to go get another drink. Sure you don't want something?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Stiles said.

Jackson got to his feet and headed back to the staircase. Stiles watched him go, then turned to look back at the tree. He couldn't help but think of the Nemeton when he looked at it, but he didn't let his thoughts linger long there. He didn't want to think about the things he couldn't change, like the rough edges of his soul and the darker parts of him that still felt guilty, that might always feel a little bit that way. After all, the only thing he could change was what he did now.

And god, he wanted...a lot of things. He wanted to protect the ones he loved. He wanted to do justice to Allison's memory. He wanted-

"To live."

Stiles started to turn around at the painfully familiar voice, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him from doing so.

"Don't. Just listen." Allison's voice was soft and he could feel her breath against his ear. "You want to live, Stiles. And you deserve to. You deserve to live and be happy. But don't do it for me. Do it for yourself. Your life matters, Stiles Stilinski."

She was silent then, and for a moment, Stiles was scared to breath. Then her lips touched his cheek and her hair tickled his neck, and then it was all gone and he whirled around but no one was there. He stared down the length of the floor but there was no one else, except Jackson who was coming up the stairs with his own drink.

"You okay? You look like...something startled you," Jackson said as he took a seat.

"No, no I'm fine. Did you see anyone head down the stairs?

Jackson frowned. "No. Just us up here."

Stiles leaned forward on the table. "Yeah...just us."


End file.
